You're Not Chic. You Just Have Pinterest.

Anasa Fraser

2 hours ago

3 min read

If you’ve been anywhere on the internet lately, you’ve seen the question over and over again: are we experiencing chic psychosis?

Maybe the first question to ask is what chic actually is. If that conjures a mental monolith of skinny, white, shiny-haired, impeccably tailored women, we may have an issue.

The word is not even that old. Chic came into English around the 1870s, borrowed from the French, who most likely took it from the German Schick, meaning skill or knowing how to arrange something well. It described a talent, the ability to pull something together with ease. By the 1880s, we see a shift towards Parisian elegance, but still with an emphasis on originality. Somewhere along the line, we kept the word and dropped its true meaning. Chic used to mean you knew how to be yourself well. Now it means you know how to look like everybody else.

When the word appeared on the fashion scene, it referenced specific designers. Charles Frederick Worth, the Englishman who more or less invented Parisian couture, had his name in fashion magazines by the 1870s, right as chic was entering the same pages. By the 1920s, the word belonged to Chanel, who took jersey, a poor man’s fabric, and black, the colour of mourning, and made both of them chic by doing what no one else was doing. Both earned the word by dressing against the prevailing look of the time.

We are in a mimicry epidemic. What we’re seeing is a reaction, or rather a rejection, of how-to-be-chic and cool-girl content. Why? Everything feels the same.

The problem is not repetitiveness, because that is what makes personal style, nor is it taking inspiration from others, because that is how we learn and how we know what suits us and what doesn’t. Sometimes you need to try a trend to know if it’s for you. None of us exists in a vacuum, and incorporating newness into your life is not the problem either.

People don’t know why they like anything.

They see something, and instead of thinking, “Wow, I love her in that look, it suits her so well, she looks amazing in that colour,” they feel a desire, an obsession, frankly, to completely absorb the look. We’ve lost the ability to appreciate someone from afar.

It’s also laziness. Are we so limited in our lexicon that the only things we can say are “chic” or “cool”? With everyone using this language, I have no edifying idea what chic means anymore. It used to be, maybe, a crisp poplin shirt with tailored cropped trousers and ballet flats. Then it was an oversized blazer and skinny jeans. Then a neutral matching set. Then quiet luxury, then the mob wife. And now? You tell me.

Everyone’s after this universal identifier, but we don’t know what we’re aiming for. Copying is safe. If you dress like the group, no one can single you out, because there’s no you to single out. In a way, that’s quite appealing. Looking like everyone else isn’t a failure of imagination so much as a hedge against being seen and judged for it.

We should aim to be divisive. Someone hating your outfit should be a compliment. You want to wear a Victorian-inspired pirate blouse? Go for it. A ballooning nylon parachute skirt? Fire away. A brutalist matte-gold structured cuff necklace? Any footwear other than Salomon trainers? Have at it. I have a pair of shoes my husband hates, and never once, not one time, have I considered not wearing them. Why would I? I love them.

We want to “be” everybody instead of being ourselves. Instead of coming up with our own self-concept, we shove ourselves into someone else’s.

Who are you? And what do you want?

I have a dress I wear once every few years that makes me feel like Ariel at the end of The Little Mermaid, when King Triton conjures her a gown of sparkling silver. An incredibly niche reference, but that scene has stayed with me since I was three. I bought the dress in a nothing store for twenty dollars, probably twelve years ago. Nobody told me to want it, and nobody needs to tell you either.

You need a deeper understanding of who you are and what you want. Otherwise, what’s the point? It can come from anywhere: painting, dance, poetry, film, your favourite colour, your favourite book, cooking, metalwork, whatever it is.

Go outside.